Ser Straachan, Hedge Knight
by Silirt
Summary: A lone maester guides a group of vulnerable refugees through Westeros, assisted only by an unknown man whom he does not trust. Together they seek a mythical artifact whose supposed powers threaten the stability of Westeros and the known world. They encounter very real and very dangerous characters, misfortune, loss, and love. They work together. They have no choice.
1. Outset

_ASTARON_

JAEHAERYS: KING IN THE SIGHT OF GODS AND MEN

HAIL

HAIL

HAIL

Those were the words as the new maester read them, boldly proclaiming the glories of a dead king in stone engraving, proclaiming to the end of time, lost in a bog or not.

"Typical" A king, acting like a bloody cunt as if anyone cares. A smaller member of his ensemble tugged on his coat, eyes fearful, soaked to the skin.

"Ser?"

"I'm no knight." Mentally kicking himself, Astaron corrected his rudeness. "I'm sorry, what is it?"

"We've been travelling a long way, we must stop to make water soon."

"Well, we'll get there in thirty minutes. Is there any way it can wait?" Why am I even asking?

"No." She turned her face downward. "Sorry…Maester."

"It's all right, I'll bet there are others." He looked to the crowd of children behind him, their names and unfortunate fates racing through his mind.

Asanna Snow, likely a bastard of Barrowton had a full bladder. She designed not to talk more often than not, and her closest companion was half again her age. How can such a small girl have such a full bladder?

Reynisi Frey, father killed in the Red Wedding, forced to escape on the fastest cart she could find to Barrowton, the first town she saw. The cart's owner, already laboring with twenty stone, noticed and had his way with her, likely not in the knowing nor caring she was only just twelve and unflowered. She spoke less, and Assana made silent company.

Barta had no last name and was a common girl. She worked in an inn, sweeping the floors and the like. The Knight of the Black Dagger had sought to slash all who lived in Barrowton, but Barta escaped with the group.

Coliete Stitch resisted going with them, eager to look for her parents in Torrhen's Square even after its plight. Maybe she was delusional. Maybe she was the only one among them with hope.

Motte was the last, and had not spoken at all. According to Coliete, she had arrived in Torrhen's Square only a day before they were both evacuated for Barrowton. Her identity was to be protected, and all the group knew was that she had been saved from Asha Greyjoy's fury.

"Is there anyone who has to make water?" Three hands pointed to the heavens, including Assana's. Fuck it, it can't be helped. He motioned for them to disperse into the trees while he looked after the livestock. In all his life at the Citadel, he never thought he would stoop to stealing a colt for some little maid to ride. He asked they take turns on it, and never took one himself. Am I doing the right thing? What is the right thing? What should I use to tell me what is right? The questions did not stop when they reached the open area, a ruin in the distance.

"Who's that? Is he a friend of yours?"Coliete asked innocently. A man in leather and mail watched astride a speckled horse in the distance, in the clearing beyond the trees and swamp. If there were a sigil on his doublet, Astaron could not see it.

"We're going to go around him. We want to stay out of the rain around here." The Neck was a dangerous place. Gods, what am I doing here? It was only a week since he found the girls fleeing in distress under the charge of an ancient knight.

"Do you swear before gods and men that you will deliver these children safely?"

"I- yes, I swear!" The man reared his horse and charged back into Barrowton, like as not knowing his death would come soon. If for nothing other than admiration at the man's will did Astaron take the girls with him. He had been on his way to Torrhen's Square or perhaps Winterfell to serve as maester, but according to the girls, it was unwise to go to either. At his decision, they would go around Blazewater Bay and make their way west to Flint's Finger. His contemplation was cut short with the arrival of no fewer than four brigands before him, surfacing from behind trees up ahead and slowly circling his charge.

"They say honest men have no need to hide in the wood and swamp." You were hiding there. Astaron knew better than to mention that.

"Then perhaps the only honest one here is the knight of the clearing." The maester indicated in the direction of the clearing they had just passed, but no horseman could be seen.

"A careful man would mind what he implies." Taunted a footpad.

"What do you want with us?"

"What do you want with them? I have no idea what a young man such as yourself would be doing with maids." They inched closer and closer, leading Astaron to wonder what threat they perceived. Might that it's the old rumor maesters have magic on their sides. Might that I'd show them.

"Leave us alone. As the court maester, Lord Robin will not be pleased to hear about this." The imposter lifted his chain on his neck to display its links.

"Might be he won't then." Looking to take him down quickly, the first man brought down a short sword on him, only stopped by the chain Astaron now had completely off his neck. Despite being a man of nine and thirty, he was strong enough to hold the man's sword, kicking him in the shin ineffectually. As the second reared, he was yanked off to the side somehow, but all the maester could see out of the corner of his eye was a broken sword coming out of a scabbard. The third man approached to his right and the girls scattered, forcing him and the fourth to give chase, probably to prevent them from bearing word to Flint's Finger. As the first man finally broke Astaron's grip and prepared to stab, his eyes went dead as a flash of steel could be seen, if at all, across his throat. Immediately he turned to the other bandits pursuing the girls, sprinting after the one who had caught Assana and grappling him, forcing him to the ground. He wore no armor, and Astaron forced his throat against a nearby tree, keeping his sword arm down with his other hand and foot. Assana cried and kicked him, doing no visible damage. Stealing a look over, he saw a man in mail running after the last brigand, who held Reynisi to his chest with a dagger to her throat. The strength faded from the man who hurt his youngest and the maester with no master sprinted to the last man, who wore only a full helm and steel chest plate with boiled leather leggings. The most unwelcome armament, however, drew innocent Frey blood. It was a black dagger with a silver fold close to the hilt.

"Let her go." Ordered the man in mail.

"The Knight of the Black Dagger swore to the Freys that all who took refuge in Barrowton would die. He will fulfill his duty, he will do so on his honor."

"You're killing Reynisi Frey. She escaped the wedding." Warned the maester as the girls slowly crept back, seeing that they were no longer pursued.

"He does not believe." The man in mail pointed his sword, broken for half its length at the hostage taker.

"If you don't believe, and you have honor, then fight."

"The Knight of the Black Dagger is challenged by the Knight of the Broken Sword? Might be that's too perfect to ignore." He released the Frey girl and rose to full height. Astaron quickly rounded up his charge and motioned to set off, but the girls were set on watching. Damn those songs. He's a bloody hero, isn't he? Without a word, the hedge knight charged and thrust his dagger forth, only to be sidestepped, if poorly, and cut on the arm. He swung wildly and caught Broken Sword in the ribs, forcing him to leap backward, resisting the urge to clutch his wound. Black Dagger struck out with an iron boot aimed at his foe's face, but found himself being pulled farther forward rather than resisted. A broken sword went into his exposed calf and he felt the ground with his back and seconds later a man's leather boot with his throat. After that, Astaron did not expect him to feel anything.

"My name is Straachan." The mysterious man said once bearings could be regained. He had removed his armor and was allowing the silver link on Astaron's chain to be recognized as its owner cleaned and dressed his wound. Likely it isn't. Likely you're just some sellsword. I'm only helping him because he helped us. The trees whispered that he did more than help.

"No 'Ser'? What house?"

"I haven't a house, not really. On the Isle of the Songs, we have but a town."

"The Isle of the Songs? There's no such place."

"We're far west out of Blazewater Bay. We were, at least." Astaron let the matter drop. Whether the island existed or not, the girls would want to see it. 'Isle of the Songs', gods be good, why did they have to call it that?

"He should be a knight!" called out Coilete eagerly. Holding up a hand to stay her excitement, the maester responded carefully.

"Knights are sworn in service of a lord or king."

"Well, he can swear he'll be Lord Robin's knight!" the potential knight in question gave a downcast expression.

"Is that where you're going?" Coliete nodded excitedly. "I'm sorry. Lord Robin's dead." Mentally kicking himself, the scholar stood, finished patching up the man's ribs. I should have expected it. As a lord of the north, he would be invited to the wedding.

"Well, we're going there anyway. If nothing else, we can find passage." Said Astaron decisively. As Straachan stood, he whistled for his horse, who came carefully through the thick trees.

"I hope you don't intend to go past Cape Kraken. The ironmen are dangerous, you face a man who has seen their wastes. They laid waste to our island, all in search of some fool's masque."

"Well, you can't expect us to cross the North!" The scholar grew exasperated and it certainly came out in his voice.

"We can't go south. The only safe place in the North is the Dreadfort."

"Then we arrive at House Flint and cross that bridge when we get to it." Astaron declared with a sense of finality. Who in the seven hells is this sellsword to tell me what to do? I've studied from boyhood, and I'm far from done. When Straachan had no problem with the plan, he turned to help the girls onto the mounts. It would be a long walk to the castle, and the nameless colt would have the longest walk of all. Asses and donkeys were never known to be true work animals, and travelling great distances with a load would be something for which they were neither ready nor willing to undertake. At any rate, the horse could carry two girls at once, and they seemed to enjoy riding it almost as much as they enjoyed Straachan's presence. Not a minute passed between questions of him, and they had insisted he take the armor and swords of the fallen brigands, likely not because it would serve him, but so his appearance would shine. What is it about this man that makes them lose their sense? They had all seen war, they knew the horrors of what men would do. Maybe it's that he has no lord.

"State your business." The sentry outside the castle called after a long journey of wondering. The donkey had died and three of the girls held back tears, but insisted that they bury it with a name. Astaron carved something short into a rock with the spike on the back of the Black Dagger he had picked up and kept for himself.

"We seek asylum." Astaron answered simply. We have a knight who considers your employ, and five orphans. One is a Frey." Here I am, implying the girl can be used as a hostage.

"Don't we all." The guard answered, not reveling whether or not he would let them in as he disappeared.

"Yes. We do." The maester quietly said to himself.

If you're interested, please review. I try to update regularly.


	2. Outset part 2

STRAACHAN

It was nigh on dark before the watchman allowed them in.

"Look- I don't know you- I'm not sure I want to know you. But one thing I have to ask is your intent. We're in a castle now, I have the advantage, not like the wild where you and your scores of hedge knight friends make the rules." The maester started with him when they were both alone. Lord Robin's daughter of six and ten had allowed the girls into the two guest rooms, leaving Straachan and this frankly quite mysterious man by his judgment, to find what sleep they could elsewhere.

"I don't know what you're on about. I came to help you." The knight responded harshly. I can't have this man opposing me if we're going to stay together. We had better get it all out now.

"Oh, like I can believe that. Nobody just helps anyone."

"Well what about you and those girls?"Straachan returned angrily, without thinking.

"I couldn't leave them. I was acting under orders." That's not the whole truth.

"You're barely a full maester. No man is giving you orders. You don't even know about Westeros!" The knight continued to lose control as he spoke. "And what about me? Can't I say that I couldn't leave the girls?" The scholar walked away.

"Of course you can. But don't expect me to trust you." Maybe I won't trust you, then. The men parted ways, the younger seeking a drink of the grape before bed. Never aught hard, just something to quiet the pain in his skull- the pain hounded him, never relenting, and it felt as though hammers beset his helm.

"Any sort of wine, if you have it." He said in response to the unheard question the maid asked. She scurried off as he sat down across from a man in a deep blue robe. The local tavern had not taken long to reach, and his feet had seemed to guide him there, leaving his mind to wonder about the locals. There was a private back room, likely for quiet meetings, but Straachan had seen no man go in. The hooded man on the off side of his table rarely looked up, and when he did, it was at the door. Women cast worrisome glances at Straachan, and his hand slowly went below the table, where his sword seemed ready to pull itself free.

"My trade does not concern you, knight." Came a whisper of the robed one across him. "But you are him who would find himself concerned all the same, yes?" He spoke like a Braavosi, but Straachan would little know one from a Targaryen.

"Go on."

"I await a man meeting an assassin, he waits in the shade room."

"You're going to check the employer."

"The only way Stannis Baratheon escapes death at the hands of the Faceless Man is that this one in particular is not employed."

"What does he want?"

"An unimaginable price will sate his hunger. Something only a king can provide." At that moment, an ironman, immediately recognizable as a Greyjoy with his sable and gold, stepped inside. The man had black hair down to his shoulders and his only eye, contentedly searching the room, was black as well. As the hooded man began to stand, Straachan held him back.

"How can you be sure?"

"Euron Greyjoy has no wish to face the stags in battle, the rumors say he is protected by occult arts. No man expects this. Not one."

"What do you mean to do? You can't kill him. I likely couldn't either." The unknown man broke from his grasp, striding over to the armored king.

"Valar Morghulis" whispered he as he sat across the Iron King.

"Valar Dohaeris. Do you expect me to believe you are the Faceless Man? He doesn't speak until he sees gold. He'll listen to your drivel once he knows it's real."

"My reputation precedes me. But there are down goings of even this. All a man need do is threaten to call upon me. And so I am in need of gold."

"Very well." Euron placed a single gold coin on the table, a rose was carved on it."

"That is no dragon."

"Of course, but surely you could tell the gold is real." He's a trick. Without a moment's hesitation, the nameless man put the gold in his teeth, just as an armored fist punched the coin. Straachan stood before the kraken could speak, drawing his sword as the false assassin spat out blood and teeth on the floor.

"That's enough."

"He lied. The rumors were of my own invention, dear hedge. Now unless you plan to tell me you too are the Faceless Man-"

"How do you else know?" Straachan asked angrily. "I am the man who saw you before you saw me. I have a sword at your eye." It was true enough, and this gave the king a moment of pause. One swipe and the pain of my people would be-

"My name is-"

"Euron Greyjoy. I knew your name. I have been sent here to kill you by Stannis Baratheon, who tells me you will make a better offer, but I am to follow his order before considering yours." Straachan was thinking as quickly as his mind would allow. The man he faced, there could be no uncertainty, was both stronger and smarter. But a man would live if he believed otherwise.

"And what exactly do you plan to do? Kill me? I assume this man was some sort of distraction."

"I mean to hear your offer." The knight responded simply. His wine had appeared on the table without his notice and he reached back with his left arm for it.

"If indeed, you are the real Faceless Man, I mean you to kill the old stag for no more than a thousand dragons."

"A jape? He offered half again the amount. I nearly killed him in anger when he suggested less. His Hand was not close at hand, as the jest went."Straachan was not accustomed to talking in such a roundabout way. He liked it when people expressed their thoughts clearly, so he usually did the same. He swallowed the wine at once, carefully replacing it behind him.

"If you could kill me, then fight." The patrons slowly stood around the two of them and at a snail's pace set for the door, preparing for flight and closely watching the two armored men, both of whom now had swords drawn. Slowly the hooded man stood from his place on the ground, having patched up his face with bandages and a rag. The man would never be beautiful, but perhaps he never was, what with the fondness for the hood, thought the knight of the naked shield.

"Valar Morghulis." Straachan opened with a kick, always having relied on his strength more than weapons. His greaves could not withstand the blow from the Greyjoy's armor, but as he pushed the king, it mattered little. The black haired man staggered, but came back with uncommon fury, forcing Straachan on the defensive. It was all he could do to repel the blows, to say nothing of returning any. Once he was sure he had been nicked on the shoulder, but could pay it no mind. He kicked a chair with his off foot as they danced around, which stole Euron's one eye but for a moment. Drawing back, he deflected the king's half blind blow and struck him around the eyepatch with his shielded fist. But even in pain, the kraken could not be kept back. His blows grew faster and more savage, but had no less care than before, each only just being deflected. Straachan felt a gap in the man's placing and struck blindly, hitting in the withers. Leaping back, he had a better view.

"I yield. For now." The knight could scarce believe his hearing. "Your friend here is true, and a truer craven. I trust you noticed when he tried to grapple me?" That explains the opening.

"Of course. The Many Faced God sends his regards." Uttered the hooded man, on account of missing teeth in great pain.

"You have but a month. I expect to hear of it done cleanly, with no traces to the Iron islands."

"You have my word. The stag will not know of my approach." Weapons went slowly back into their sheathes and the tavern's keep crept inside. The kraken, not lingering over the place in which he had suffered a slight wound, quit the premises, like as aught a man to return. Without heeding the hooded man, Straachan turned to the door in the back, marching into the room where he knew he would find the Faceless Man.

"Apparently even those of the most accomplished order need sleep." spake his battle companion, if he could be called that. In any nomenclature, he was right. The assassin was passed out in a bed that was little more than a slab and a few furs. The knight turned to the robed man, having closed the door behind them.

"Who are you?" It was no question. At his reticence, Straachan picked him up by the front of his robes, pressing the man's back against the closed door. The hood fell away to reveal an older man's face, perhaps one of five and sixty.

"My name is Jaehaerys Storm."

"A high name for a bastard-"

"It was a jape."

"Now or seventy years ago?"

"In those days, bastards were treated with more mockery than ignorance."

"How did you know about Euron?"

"The king's Hand told me what to foresee before sending me out. I was to disappear after convincing the Iron King."

"What do we do now?" He let the man down. Perhaps he was given to trust, perhaps he was a fool. "We could have killed the greatest danger to the realm if he had made another mistake."

"That would not be likely. He made one mistake, and it convinced him you were Faceless. Fear and arrogance worked against him."

"We're getting nowhere. All we can do now is get some rest. I've got a friend who knows nigh on naught of kings, but much of war, from his black iron link. We talk to him, should he still be talking to me, and we cross that bridge when we get to it." Jaehaerys nodded silently. The two of them left the bar quietly, intent on Storm's refuge he had used while awaiting the kraken. It was little more than a cave, but it would serve. If Straachan would live, he would serve to be a knight- a true one to the death.

For all men must die.


	3. Outset part 3- Astaron

ASTARON

As he forced himself out of bed in the maester's quarters, he contemplated life at the castle. It was an entirely too disaster prone area, considering its proximity to the Iron Islands, but at the same time, it was pleasant. Robin's daughter was a droll girl turned woman, and he enjoyed her company, though, of course, in an official capacity, there would be no extra ordinary ties between maester and lady. At Oldtown, he had chosen to work on his Smithing first, and yet found there was one discipline absent from his knowledge testified by his link of pale steel.

"What makes it so strong?" he asked, holding his newfound and yet likely ancient dagger to the morning sunlight as he took a walk outside, developing a fondness for the grape. The weapon was mostly black with some silvery folding near the base, and the scholar suspected this was due to the way in which Valyrians made the steel, theoretically folding the metal hundreds of times, increasing the strength. Even the most accomplished modern smiths, however, could not recreate the strength. Thinking that logically a secret component was present, his thoughts were interrupted by a beckoning by Straachan, who stood adjacent to a hooded man, an elder by his posture.

"What are you doing? Who is he?"

"We've recently run into Euron Greyjoy. This is a friend of the realm. As a maester, you swore to serve the realm." Are you just going to stare at me with your stupid look?

"I meant rightly to know what his name was. This is no discussion for the commons anyway." He said, deciding that there were too many potential listener's around. They made their way into the castle, going through long, dark corridors going deep underground, ceilings getting lower as they went, making the song knight appear ever taller and more intimidating.

"My name is Jaehaerys Storm. I am a servant of the realm and Stannis Baratheon, rightful king." Well, we've discovered a new notch of buffoonery.

"Do you expect me to believe-"

"You have to." Straachan cut him off.

"In all the seven hells, why-"

"He has no reason to lie to us."

"Not a half day ago, you slew brigands without even looking."

"This man is naught if not courageous. He is no highwayman."

"Oh, and I'm to believe that on what charge? Did he perchance _tell you_ a tale of himself courageous? And you're avoiding this horseshit about Euron Greyjoy."

"He assaulted Euron Greyjoy." Am I to laugh or walk away from these lunatics?

"Your heads would only tell that tell from the prow of a ship, where more than like they'd be mounted."

"They tell it truly."

"We met him in the Dark Grape at midnight or near enough as makes no matter." Interjected the bastard. "He put up gold on a kill-list- a thousand dragons if I remember correctly."

"What happened to the gold?"

"It only counts when the job is finished." Lackwits. They aren't even considering going for the bounty, and didn't take the chance of killing the kraken.

"What do you intend to do? Sail out into Blazewater Bay and kill Euron in single combat? This isn't a damnable song!"

"No. He has already lost. It would have been a craven thing to kill a man who yielded, and Storm suggests the iron king will like as not come to think I died in the attempt if no word returns."

"That's it then? What in the hells do I have to do with any of this?"

"Greyjoy will go to another Faceless if the first proves unsuccessful . We need to find a crime committed by an assassin, blame it on someone who said like Straachan here that he was after Stannis Baratheon, and we need to make as much as matter know that it was a Braavosi behind it."

"And you serve the realm." Straachan finished. Astaron was past the point of anger, but at this point, his words would be wasted. The maester sighed. This man was a knight, papers or not.

"I have no knowledge of any assassinations. When I hear of one, I'll tell you."

"You're of luck." I disbelieve. "We already heard of a dubious murder in the streets of Duskendale. Escenane Waters, supposed bastard of House Rykker returned from Sothoryos a week ago to find a knife in his throat. Unwilling to let men say he planned it, Leek's been directing the Crownlands to believe it a case of self-slaughter." explained the bastard. Why are there so many bastards?

"We believe-" followed the knight "-we can get you there. The girls will arrive safely at King's Landing." The girls? What about me?

"There is no guarantee they will be safe there. If anything, the crowns will learn of their bearing and use them as pawns, especially young Motte."

"We have a Frey up our sleeves." returned Jaehaerys, unwilling to be out done as he shuffled his hands into the sleeves of his robe as if to produce her. "Coliete is likely of means, but disconnected from her family, no connections can be drawn. Two are bastards, and Motte will be safer where the royals are not looking for her."

"My _concern-_" quested Astaron emphatically "-is not their lives in the city, but how they _get in._"

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it." And with that, the discussion was over.

The kindness of moribund House Robin had extended until noon, as good of a time to set out as any, by Astaron's reckoning. The journey would be a long one, but with the supplies restocked, the horse should hold out. He never asked what the name of the speckled beast was, but the scholar suspected it was sentimental enough to make the girls keel over. With the apparent intent to set every wrong in the world aright, his was an attractive post. Bound to no master, he could not be coerced into any war in which he wanted no part. If we do ever get him a painted shield, he ought to paint a bird.

The first major obstruction would like as not be the swamps. Men at arms were dangerous, but being lost was a far more hopeless death. Of course, the group would avoid Moat Cailin, and so unlikely was the prospect of being overtaken, they hardly considered it. Nobody looks for small, female refugees in a swamp. No one looks for anyone in a swamp. So far, there have been no notable examples where the effort has been worth aught.

"Tell me, Astaron." Straachan started to ask his companion. "What might it be that makes Waters color his tunic red?"

"Well, I hardly know. You told me about this case naught more than odd hours ago. I have no idea who this fool of a dignitary is, anyway, or what he was doing in Sothoryos. At the Citadel, the most we know, which is the most _anyone _knows is that the whole continent teems with disease! The only thing that makes me marvel more than the absurd notion a man has to get into his head to _go _there is the chance he has of coming _back_!" the maester finished angrily. Gods, why in the seven hells do these fools not know about the Green one?

Apparently sensing his anger, the girls turned away. He had not noticed them paying attention the entire time. Well, would you look at that -another reason for me to be some monster to them. This is my _just deserts _for being around men all these years.

Straachan, however, was on one hand too thick and on another too much more the obstinate to leave the matter where it was. Through his brigand-looted helmet, it was technically impossible to judge which, but the scholar had a suspicion to the prior.

"It pains me to suggest such a thing, but there are men with terrible reasons for the terrible things they do. I know little of the Green hell, and know that a man does best to avoid objects of evil, but there are those who would intentionally seek them out. What sort of horrors would he release on the world that spurned him?" Straachan spoke slowly, choosing each word with care. "Death is not the worst of evils." The eight of them rode and walked on in silence, electing to avoid further confrontation.

"Here we are." Storm put his pack under the overhang of a small promontory. The lot of them would sleep quietly and well in the shade and the cool weather. Swamps were upon them, and in the morning there would be fatiguing and long travels ahead. But first, camp was established and Astaron fell asleep without complaint from his normally active mind.

In the night he was on the quarried blocks of dragonglass, cutting himself as he looked up. He was in an immense chamber, seeing clearly neither the height nor the length of the hall, but along the walls to his left and right depictions of slaughter and pain littered the walls.

"SPEAK, MORTAL. I HAVE TIME TOO LITTLE FOR ALL OF THE LIKES OF YOU." Astaron turned as he realized that he stood in a throne room and on a throne of ice and dragonglass sat a king in radiant armor of vermillion, ten-no, twenty score in height.

"Who are you?"

"I AM HIM WHO MAKES THE WOMEN WAIL AS WIND WIDOWS."

"How do they call you?" asked the scholar, fearfully.

"THEY CALL ME WHEN EVEN THE CHILDREN AND FRESH SPAWN ARE NOT SPARED."

"What is your name?!" Shouted Astaron. The metal giant of a man laughed and seized an empty scabbard from behind his seat.

"I HAVE NO WEAPON. I AM THE WEAPON. IT WAS I WHO TERRIFIED THE BASILISK ISLANDS, I WHO KILLED NINE MEN IN TEN, I WHO MADE THE WORLD SCREAM ONLY SEVEN AND SEVENTY YEARS FROM THE FALL OF OLD VALYRIA." Astaron said nothing and simply stared, uncertain whether or not he was dreaming.

"MY NAME IS RED DEATH." The scene fragmented and shifted.

A woman clutching at her heart struggled to breathe on a wooden floor. Instinctively, he shuffled through the hidden interior pockets on his robe as he rushed over to her, yelling for her to lie still, but finding his voice to fail. He held her down and seized the willow powder from his robes, putting as much as necessary down her throat and forcing her to swallow. Relief bathed over him and he began to compress her heart repeatedly, doing everything in his power to keep her alive. She choked and calmed down, at first struggling to sit up, but did not resist when he forced her down again, instructing her to lie still until he could be sure she was safe. As the image faded, he caught one word.

"It does a man well to be prepared."

"Rise. We have some distance to cover." The maester struggled to his feet at the knight's command, intending with every bone to be equally worthy of a title by which none had addressed him.

"I rise as I always rise. If you see any willow trees, tell me. There will never be a time I have no need for the bark." Straachan's helmet nodded, then turned to set its master about his work. As the scholar rose, the pain in his back requested more favorable sleeping arrangements on any following night, and Astaron had little intention to disabuse any of his body parts of such a hope.

The travelers had come far and had far to travel.

* * *

><p>AN: Sorry for the extra week. I had an inordinate amount of things to do.


	4. Outset part 4- Sasera

SASERA

It was a nice name, she thought to herself. A new name for a new life, and a new life for a fugitive. It was not to the greater part of men's knowledge that there were abandoned houses in the forests and swamps of the neck, and, south of the Saltspear, no suspecting traveler would have aught chance to recognize her anyway.

Rivers would like as not be her last name, after all, it was easier than conjuring up an entire life story, and bastardry made an attractive mate for a man wandering through with no intention of staying. As a former pickpocket, it was out of her custom to be alone for more than a moon's turn, and the company she kept brought more than gold and heat. She was no stranger to love. In fact, she rather enjoyed using a man and sending him on his pointless path to whatever hells or oblivion that lie beyond. For her part, it was closer to oblivion, and well, for the gods were not known to smile upon her path, or at least that was the drivel from the aging septon from her youth in Torrhen's Square. Sasera cared little.

The false identity would be incomplete without a stark difference in appearance. She ran her hair on the moon's turning through a mixture she had concocted which turned it from red gold to black, or mahogany, depending on the light.

"Words are wind" the man with some absurd false name told her when she affirmed she was the greatest lover the crowned heads of seven kingdoms had known. She would show him the truth of it, but a request of a single dragon belied her true intents. Since then, her brief life of glamour was over, but if there were gods, and the gods were good, there would still be whispers of the woman she once was. As to the present woman, the carapace around her true self, she was without fault. Only once had she made a mistake. She had counted the days since then, with decreasing worry, and more certainty ever passing one that she would on one wake and lose count. It had been nine and seventy days. There was a knock at the door, and she allowed an older man to enter. He was a maester, the summer of whose years slowly waned.

"Are you here for the night?" Why do men like it when I pretend I know nothing?

This one in particular appeared ready to assent, but shrugged off the feeling and asked if there were some place for the children. Sasera's countenance visibly fell, and she told him there was a cellar, but there would be a fee for him. At once, a man stepped forth, one in armor leading a horse with grace. He removed his helm and let his short brown hair and deep blue eyes be seen.

"Is there a place for the horse?"

"Of course." She led him around to what once served as a woodshed. "And for you, gentle knight- there is a place as well. I ask nothing of you." The maester turned to face the woods silently.

"My companion is older than I. Your offer is generous, but another holds hostage my heart." He leaned closer to her, whispering softly. "There are septons who say that some sins are blacker than others. I did not rise to manhood with this faith, so perhaps I am unfair, but I do not share this belief. The gods believe we are all the same, else they would help some and hurt others." She smiled at his sentiment and turned away. It did men who would have her well not to have known her, she knew that much. But did it do her well not to know the men she would have? In her belly there was an urge to have his seed and the Moon Mother's tea after, but this was not a man like the others, and yet- men were the same in his eyes.

It seems I'm no god, then.

He left her to find his friend, but the older man would have none of it. Rain would soon arrive, but the scholar would sooner freeze and die than stoop to sleep anywhere near Sasera. All the while, a man who had hidden his identity shuffled four or five children in through the door. She had not counted on this amount, but allowed it on the condition that the hooded man, an elder by his gait, would watch the children in the cellar.

"There isn't much to eat out here." she told the knight, after they had exchanged names, once all were inside but the maester. Where he had hidden himself, Sasera did not know. "But I manage with the fruit that grows about and the man who comes by with blood sausages." I get plenty of another sort of sausage from him as well. A look of concern played across the man's face.

If he's worked out that I never get out, he's a sharper mind than I thought.

"On the island where I lived, there was an old man who ate nothing but sausage. He died, in great pain, apparently. True, he was old… but the maester I met says he should have lived longer, had he not caused his heart trouble. I don't understand it myself. I only know what I saw." The mood darkened, but Sasera did not let it daunt her. She knew about old stories, always taking place so long ago no one could remember specific things. It annoyed her when people never stuck to anything specific.

"Do you know any songs from your island? The only one I can remember is 'The Black Bear and the Maiden Fair'. Where is this island, anyway?"

"I know we have quite a few, but at the moment, I can remember but one. The name is 'Woman Scorned', and I hope to never find a time where it's relevant. At all."

"Why did they call it that?" she asked as she stood, hoping it was not some long diatribe about women in general. She suspected this knight knew better than that, though. "It sounds most interesting." In response, Straachan was silent through four of his own breaths and five of hers, then sang, softly at first.

"I was a man for a day, if e-ver in my life" Sasera cleared her throat before he could get to the next line. There was a stiffness in her chest. This one sounds good, she thought.

"If there were a way, to go back to the day-

-for I came to rue the troubles, rife-

No dragons could allay, or get in my way.

There was a woman and I loved her, loved with all my heart.

Wherefore did I all that I did, I dare not even start." Straachan paused after the long note, taking in the moment. Across him, Sasera felt her own heart growing heavy, like a stone in her chest.

She took me in her and I thought her true

I did whatever she said to do,

But she hurt my heart, and a wiser man

-might have told me to let her go.

But I tell you now, all that I can-

She turned as cold as snow." He continued his quiet song and she put her hand over her heart, compelled. In her head she felt light. Is this love? Is it?

After almost half again an hour had passed since she had invited him in, there was a knock at the door. Sasera could hardly get the words out, but asked if there were more friends of his. At his concerned shake of his head, he stood and found his helmet and sword. She walked across the room, opening the door, hoping for anyone other than a customer. She found a fist.

"That's the girl, Donal." affirmed a rough man as he stepped inside. It was the man from whom she had stolen, and he was angry.

"What is this?!" shouted Straachan. "Explain yourself or die!"

"My name is Denys Darklyn. And like as not, it'll be you dying today." The knight had his sword out in a heartbeat, its swift point to the other man's throat in a second. "But first, I shall entertain you. Donal, get your man in here. A swordsman strode in carefully, following some peasant with a pack. It was him from so long ago, nine and seventy days to the hour. "This woman, if the gods do not take offence that I so name her, is no more than a thief. A skilled one, to tell it true, but a thief none the less. My new friend here told me some weeks ago that he stumbled upon a cottage of a whore." That's a lie, he came to me. "When I asked if she had any distinctive markings, that I may have again my gold, he told me there was a scar on her back, near her rounded buttocks. He says he felt it, and thought at once of my pursuit of the known thief, Asanna Snow." It had been almost half a year since she had heard that name. But she left Asanna in Torrhen's square, and was Sasera inside her mind and without.

"Sasera is no pickpocket, whatever her crimes may be." Straachan responded. "If every brigand who came were to tell me who I am, I'd be worse a fool." He took on the swordsman blow for blow, steel and steel, that she could not fully follow it as she slumped in her chair, finding it took an unexpected amount of effort to breathe. What's going on? Wherefore does this man act this way- and my heart? The knight shouted as the other swordsman got the better of him, recoiling as the assailant strode across the room at the order of Denys Darklyn.

"If you claim to not be the same woman I and this man shared- you will not have the mark." As Straachan forced himself to his feet and the trap door opened, the head of the old man being seen, the swordsman slashed at Sasera's back and she howled in pain, flailing as he revealed the scar on her lower back. Her mind was awash with pain- both inside and out, and as the knight stood, the skilled man at arms turned and slashed once, but Sasera could not see it. Donal searched the room for gold. He'll never find it, not where I hid it- never. From the basement he dragged up the old man despite the efforts of a little girl to hold onto him. She was northron, but the sight of her was unclear from the pain.

"Where is the gold?!" Denys shouted, like as not out of patience. He was like that as a lover.

"Stop, please, we had no idea-" Denys interrupted the old man by seizing the girl and dragging her to the fire still burning from the time Sasera faintly recalled taking the sausages off it.

"Talk!"

"I don't know- nothing you can do will-" Denys did not like having his abilities questioned. He was like that as a lover, too. He heaved the girl into the fire, warding the old man off with a knife. Sasera's vision grew worse, black spots began to appear, clouding everything but the pain in her chest. Darklyn kicked the knight in the head as he went out of the cottage, content with the gold the swordsman had picked up from the shelf. That was the maester's gold, though. That was not mine.

The girl's screams were all she heard as everything went dark.


	5. Astaron 3

ASTARON

The air was rank and smelled of death. From the thin moss hanging off the tree, the maester checked his footing as he climbed still higher. What did that whore know anyway- can she recite the children of the first Jaehaerys? The second? Astaron cursed himself, thinking of the dragonkings as though they made matter when the rain was all but killing him for chill.

"ASTARON!" came a shout from the ground. Oh, what is it now? Are we making mockery of me again. "ASTARON!" It's the old man's voice- this might be serious, thought the called as he slipped from the tree. "Thank the gods you hid, they might have killed you!" Is he angry or just shouting?

As he found himself shoved inside, more important matters were on hand before he could find out.

"What's going on here?" Astaron asked, not waiting for an answer. The woman looked dead, or near enough as makes no matter, there was a small, charred, corpse on the floor, and Straachan was nursing a head wound, full armor but for his head. He ordered the woman to lie still as the other men were shouting over him.

"Where in the seven hells were-"Straachan began.

"Stop, he's not a fighter-"

"Neither is Asanna." Oh, gods, is that the corpse? This wasn't how it was in the dream. Astaron quickly forced the treatment down the woman's throat

"What are you doing?" the knight demanded. You have no right to be angry- I am in control here!

"This is powder of willow- never mind, it's unlike you even know." The other man was angry, but did not strike, however ready he appeared. He compressed the woman's chest, but it took longer than he expected. He kept at it while the other two stood over him, working long into the night. As he stood up, she breathed, but had difficulty. He instructed her not to stand.

"What now?" asked Straachan of Storm.

"We need to get out of these woods as soon as we can. Sasera Rivers is every bit of a target as Asanna Snow." He sat down on the nearest chair of the small table behind him, and forcefully scratched words into a book he had drawn from his robes.

"What are you writing?"

"Think about it. How did that man introduce himself?"

"Denys Darklyn." responded Straachan, not following.

"Where could you find Darklyns half a hundred years ago?"

"I don't know."

"Duskendale. That's where we're going. I've to me a plan, and an old mind. I need to write it down lest it be gone on the morrow."

On the morrow, they were off. Sasera, who had roused, was silent most of the way, confidence visibly lost. Astaron tried to keep the knowledge of Asanna's death from the girls as long as possible, but they knew before he told them, only a few leagues away from The Twins. along the Green Fork, they passed a company lead by a woman introducing herself as Jyana Reed the younger, in search of a man by the name of Brown Courser, a sellsword. When asked her purpose, she turned abruptly after stating, with frustration of uncertain necessity, that he was a wanted man, part of a rebel group called the Swords Sable. To the knowledge of Storm, after her departure, the Swords were less of rebels and more of conspirators. They employed sellswords, if they existed, but the actual members were on the whole opposed to the existence of kings. Again, if they existed. Well, it's clear to see what you believe.

The Twins were in sight before the day's end, but it took until then that Astaron managed to clear their passage. Upon seeing her, Reynisi ran into the arms of Janyce Frey, formerly Hunter, Edwyn and his cold eyes nodding toward Straachan with something like respect. No words were required between the two of them, a purse was offered and waved away. Though the knight knew little about greater Westeros, Frey gold was known to come with hidden cost, and Astaron suspected it was not days from his arrival on the continent before the man was disabused of the notion of honor among Freys.

"What do we do with the girls now?" asked Astaron quietly of Storm. "She was our failsafe."

"She was our only plan. But she is with her family now, even though it is a smaller one." He paused, taking in his surroundings. "Barta and Coliete are destined by the Lord of Light for lives of work, and no man or woman is disgraced by honest labor. Of Motte, her future is uncertain as her real name."

"Say she's discovered to be someone of worth."

"Then we're taking her in the wrong direction. You know the history." The servant of Stannis Baratheon was right. Duskendale was ever hostile to royalty, and Motte was like as not no better off. Though it had been decades, no man had forgotten Denys Darklyn's offense to the Iron Throne."

"Say she's not discovered."

"Her father and mother will be concerned for her disappearance. Would we have them believe her dead?" Astaron chose not to respond. He knew the answer Storm would expect, but not the one he would give. Could a man in all logical thinking hold another's life above his own? Astaron stared into the distance as the Twins shrunk from view.

"Might be that there is a way around all this."

"Would that there were. But I see Duskendale and hard decisions ahead, and neither can be evaded, for all your worth."

"Say Motte boards a ship for her home and one of us goes with her. We take her to the nearest port on the way, and split up without losing a day's walk."

"She has a chance to survive. But know that the ship will go the long way unless we split soon." Am I compelled to commit this early? Father above, judge me justly.

"I would be willing to see her to her destination. They may have need of a maester at Deepwood Motte." The bastard offered no response, there was little and less they could do until they knew more of the girl. Denys Darklyn was another matter altogether. It was Tywin Lannister who ruled the realm as the lord held the Mad King as captive, having killed two noteworthy knights in the taking. He lost his head when Barristan the Bold seized his captive. To Astaron, the most confusing point of the mummer's farce was that Serala of Myr was burned for supposed complicity.

As Hag's Mire came into distant view, the scholar considered depositing the girls at Fairmarket only some few thousand paces farther south. Surveying them, he could not fail to notice their silent watch of Straachan, each mannerism of his, scratching his mount's head as he walked beside it, smelling the air as the man had taken a liking to doing, even when he stepped off the trail to piss they watched, each asking to make water within heartbeats as though their bladders were controlled by his. But before the maester could further brood, a man who said he was 'out of Oldstones' stopped them. Why did we decide we must needs take the kingsroad?

"There's been a riot-"he began, struggling to catch his breath. "At Hag's Mire somebody's laid hands on a whole chest of gold." Gold. Why is it always gold? Astaron's link of yellow gold told him that in reality, gold was not of the gods, and every bit as useless as paper notes the knights were handing out. All the same, men believed in its value, and so it had value.

"What is there to be done? What of the king's men?" Asked Straachan in his calm, knightly voice. He was to find out and he would do it.

"There are eight of them-sellswords. They're holding the chest in the ruins-" he broke. "Ser, there are _bodies_ in the palisade. But _Tommen_? He's leagues away." As he spoke, Astaron broke in.

"Straachan, this is a farce of a trap. No man _lives _in Oldstones, this fool doesn't know the territory! The gold was to draw you in; the bodies are a response to your nature." The man's helmet whipped around as the words came through its holes.

"And just what is my nature?" He asked angrily with measured tone. The stranger began to retreat, but Astaron refused to let it by.

"You're a twice-damned hero, and you'll be thrice-damned when you rush into a trap. You draw first and draw conclusions later. When the world figures you a fool, it will take you as a fool."

"And it is your counting that the world will not figure you?" Straachan asked mockingly. "If there are any among us who will come with me, let them." The thief led him away and the girls slowly began to follow on the back of his speckled horse. The woman started off behind, unsure. Jaehaerys Storm looked at them as they drew off the kingsroad, and turned to Astaron.

"I see your place in this. Straachan took one look at Euron Greyjoy and found himself at my side. He knew not who I was, nor anything about my purpose."

"Then you know he is a fool."

"I owe my life to this fool of the Isle of the Songs."

"You believe it as much as he does, then."

"I believe that if there are any heroes from any songs, this man is one." The angered maester simply stared into the distance without responding. There was little point.

"What does Stannis Baratheon have over you?" There was a pause. Sasera, last in the party ahead, looked back as though to see if the hold was well strong.

"He's the first to treat me as the man. All my life I sought another man's good word to fill the hole that my bastard name left in me. But the trick with the Son of Fire is to cease the life of a craven. We held it up at Storm's End, the king's men were never able to flush us out. It was I who sent for Davos Seaworth, but of late… His Grace has had other tasks of me." The nature of these tasks was clear to Astaron. Even the dragonkings needed men to know the secrets of the realm. The maester had never met Varys the Spider, but there could be no clearer case.

"I owe him my life as well. I'll wager he never told you that." As per custom of the day, silence followed his answer as the two of them rushed, planning to circle Hag's Mire to the east, presumably to approach from the opposite side. It had been days riding and walking since they had surfaced the Whispering Wood, even at their well-fed and hurried pace. And we're two old men making for the mountains. We'll never make it.

Having passed Seagard long since, it came as a shock when riders were after the two of them.

"Yield!"

"Name yourselves!" I've spent most of my days at the Citadel, but I'll be a damned fool if that isn't the proper order of things.

"We are Jason Mallister's knights!" At this, he and the older man stopped.

"If you're looking for Brown Courser, we still haven't seen him." The knights would have exchanged looks if it were possible, but the helmets betrayed no expression.

"How did you know we would ask that-" one began, suspicious.

"Jyana Reed asked us about the very man. Can I aver it he's been moving south?"

"For the nonce. We know little and less about where he's going and what he wants."

"We have a pressing concern." Mother have mercy on me. "We have word that sellswords have taken Oldstones. They fight off any man they see a threat." The knights had understandably to Astaron not foreseen the issue, but responded in a satisfactory manner.

"You'll have to ride with us. Our mounts are fresh and well fed. We shall take these men."

"You can be certain?"

"This is the North. Only winter is certain. And as a man of wildling blood, Ser Jikkor of Skagos, I swear by the gods of my father and his, to threats to the safety of the women and children of this hold, I am winter and winter is death."


	6. Talowo-Valyria

TALOWO

Valyria smokes still. Centuries have passed and still the boulders embedded in the ground smoke. As a slave, the why was beyond his responsibility and reasonable concern, lest sudden fire mean danger to the party, at which point he was to report this information to Vaesyr, provided that he was available, failing that, the nearest overseer. Talowo shrugged as he pondered and drank. Westerosi will never get over their rules, and will get over their bureaucracy a day later.

"We're going to get it properly this time. We've discovered three hundred gold trinkets or near as much as makes no matter." Vaesyr paced as he spoke. It was rare to see the man himself. "Now lift."

Slaves four and forty through four and sixty forced the boards and steel ties under the smoking boulder. It was long suspected that raiders had parted the island from its riches, but there were a few places that had not yet been searched. Thus far, the world had been in fear of the curse. Of course, there was also the small matter of the boulders to negotiate. As the mass of rock and fire from the smoke and the heat and the screams lifted from its place, Jaloqo called out the object once more.

"There it is! I see the hilt!" He turned to Vaesyr as though the Westerosi did not notice. "It is the twin of Nightfall-you can see it in the guard!" Talowo knew little and less of swords to know of Nightfall and to say if his master told it true. He strained against the iron bar with the force that was, all the force in his boy's body. The boulder shifted mere inches and it was then that Jaloqo darted under, the length of his arm blessed by all the gods, he reached the hilt and seized the blade with all the strength and speed of a man about to lose an arm. Unable to resist the temptation to look over the blade as the party lowered the boulder, his curiosity was sated before handing it over to his master.

"Nightfall is a noble blade- black as the bones of a dragon." The master of masters began. "We may have a fool's imitation. The honor of the blade will be slighted should we name a sister before certainty is achieved."

"Of course, my lord." Talowo laughed inside. No two words could stand without the other pair. Vaesyr could not be troubled with either comment, eyes sliding from point to guard with the care and scrutiny of an expert. But even the slaves would call it beautiful, four feet or near, dark in color and rippled with a gold color. He slid the blade into a leather scabbard Talowo had found one and ten hours earlier.

"Boy." The master said simply in acknowledgement. The addressed thought at first the remark unkind, but in all fairness, he considered, his appearance was nothing more. He had never been thought tall among boys his age in Tall Trees Town, skin an inky black, too dark for shadows to play across his face. His eyes and head and bearing betrayed no extra ordinary intelligence or strength. The man turned away, stopping, starting again, finally stopping and turning back. "It is to me that you are lettered in Valyrian. My eyes are unclear." He, without further word, bade Talowo follow to another site, Jaloqo in succession.

"My lord-" The overseer began, cautiously "-this is a discovery of fortune impossible."

"Fain would I be so bold." That will silence the old fat bastard. "Of course, the Swords Sable will be apprised, but the true discovery- there mettle has merit." They approached the ruins of an ancient building, perhaps one that had fallen from a higher place. From the ruined, fading papers inside, it appeared to be a ravenry. A single, faded piece of parchment had been found by the Pentosi wife of an overseer. Almost immediately, the letter was extracted and handed to Talowo.

"The eyes of a man are never as sharp as those in a boy's skull. The irony is a curse from all the gods that I should not read this missive, with all that is in my heart for the language of my fathers." The irony is the curse of age, master. "The slave on hand recognized a single word- dracarys." No further explanation was needed. Talowo poured over the letter, reading it along.

"There is only death here, and no life where this letter will arrive. I can only hope that an old man, tired of eye and lost in back will incline an eye to the pain and misfortune in this hell of winter and giants. The prophecy foretold the walk through this land of a man from the loins of a true Valyrian noble house. I am not he, I have discovered. I am a failure to the freehold, and the blue dragon will soon die. Never more will dragonfire curse those who defy their rightful claim to the sky. This monster was never more one than any man, and I am the last alive." Talowo paused, allowing Vaesyr to speak.

"A dragon… there is but one place in the known world to conceal one."

"I name this place another Doom, colder and more drawn out. But rightly it is known as the Land of Always Winter. I send this message to a pitying heart, one who will know the pain in the noble beast's eyes when I allowed her to sleep in a depression and the death in white to suffuse the void, burying a proud dragon for the ages to come."

-Ayrmidon, Lord of the Last Hold

"We must depart at first light." Vaesyr turned and walked off, bidding all ready themselves for the voyage. Ghazdan, a Ghiscari slave something of an equal age to Talowo, spoke quietly from behind him.

"Don't you see…this is it. We're going to the Sunset Kingdoms." The boy's hair was thick and wiry, at all hours better shaven off. Essosi vary, but all are equally impious. Such hair was no way to show love of any gods but those of ugliness.

"We shall see the sun set for the last time, brother." the Summer Islander responded. He had little and less desire to go to Westeros and the Land of Always Winter. The whole continent is winter all the time, how am I to know when we reach the right place? "The Valyrian wants a dragon and will die before giving up this quest."

"You think there is not truly one?"

"It makes no matter, as they say across the sea. I've been listening." I've always been listening. "They want to smelt Valyrian weapons. New ones, worse than any have seen."

"It will be the worse for us. I have not heard aught a word of this land…there will be no return."

"We have no choice. Jaloqo has already expressed desire to scour the northwest land. His heart did not beat between the time he heard of a "Horn of Joramun". There are creatures, unknown for the greater part, they call them the children of the forest." Westerosi know nothing of them and treat them with wonder, us with belittling words. "It is the belief of Jaloqo that they would know of the secrets of magic." Ghazdan, usually unreliable, was of small counsel. He suggested that they learn more of the new land, how better to survive, how better to escape. To Talowo, learning, all of it, had been moons wasted. How carefully he listened, how much he read made no matter. He was yet a slave, and a slave he would remain until death, which was soon.

"Might be we can listen to the masters- they might be preparing." All I ever do is listen, thought the boy with not a hair on his body and skin sable like ink. All the same, he accompanied the Ghiscari, finding the tent of their overseer and master.

"The Horn was a deadly weapon, but it is not a weapon that secures a man's crown. The Swords cause the necessary dissent in the Seven Kingdoms, but their work will scarce be aided by a new weapon that would make a target of a single man."

"Of course, Vaesyr." they heard Jaloqo say, low as a whisper. Vaesyr came into view, long white hair flowing and no beard obstructing the face of purple eyes. Men of the Sunset Kingdoms may mistake him for a Targaryen, as the man himself had confessed, but his blood was Valyrian and pure.

"If anything, powerful weapons would only be used against my hold." Vaesyr studied a map, eyes visibly tracing the distance from Valyria to the Land of Always Winter. "No, I have a greater design for the steel's fate." From his sleeve the lost lord produced a scarlet tube, closed on both ends save a second tube on one a hair's breadth wide. The other end was closed with a removable cap of the same bright stone. "This I found on the first hour the company arrived, some three fortnights past. A man can tell the craftsman left it unfinished, and this missive was inside." While talking, the Valyrian produced a small roll of parchment, handing it to his unlettered subordinate. "The words, on the greater part, make no matter." As though he felt an urge to comment on the alien letters, Jaloqo spoke.

"The writing… it is well preserved, bold, far from fading."

"Well to my liking, I found. There was no need for a slave. The note requests the addition of Valyrian steel, like as not forming the active part of this machination." He paused, staring at the small device. "Even I draw little of what this could be."

"None could know." Jaloqo added.

"I was in asperity there would be one who would. No matter. Valyrian steel is forged using magic, and must be inherently magical. I know not what the red stone is, but the joining of the two likely produces the intended result."

"May I, my lord, inquire-"

"Are you familiar with prophecy?" The unlettered man stared.

"I have, on the occasion, heard-"

"Never mind, it makes no matter. I read one about the Doom, from the day my family left the freehold for the Stepstones, where we lived for generations." He cleared his throat.

"Come to pass, it will, as surely as the death of the hold, a life anew from the loins and the will and the courage of a single man. Let the women prepare their wombs."

"At once, the finest courtesans from the finest-"

"No." Jaloqo was silenced. "The prophecy leaves me no time."

"A myriad of apologies, lord."

"Have you a modicum of an idea where this portent was discovered?"

"Only you know."

"_Garnet of Fire._ Naught more than a small text with a few words of the future, but it contained rather interesting words about the joint magic of Valyrian steel with the titular component."

"The passage, you suggest, requires the use of this instrument along with Valyrian steel."

"Yes." The tent was silent for hundreds of Talowo's rapid heartbeats. He backed away slowly and quietly as Vaesyr moved to dismiss the overseer. The Ghiscari boy grabbed a wooden bucket, pretending to fulfill some sort of task, letting all see and forget his presence entirely. If Ghazdan has any skill, thought Talowo, as he disappeared, hiding behind a nearby tent, it is pretending.

"What are you doing here?!" Jaloqo shouted before either of them saw him suddenly emerge from the tent.

"If it please-"

"Have you no respect for the lord's secrecy? Show deference-"

"-Well, fine, when that hag-haired Lysene cunt asks you where her bath is-"

"-Go, fool boy- and tell none I delayed you." Ghazdan smirked with the appropriate amount of pride for getting the better of the overseer, but not one of a boy who had pulled off a lie. He wastes his talent, that boy. He could be a mummer.

But it was not Talowo's job to think.


	7. Astaron 4

ASTARON

Jikkor rode hard. Having sent Storm to Seagard on foot, Astaron alternated between the horses of the two knights, filling them in in a shout as the galloping drowned out all other sounds.

"Tell us the plan." The man spoke directly.

"Storm's set out for reinforcements. Straachan will get there first, even if we set a grueling pace. He's a woman and three maids with him."

"What are we doing?" It was more of an order for information.

"There's little and less chance we'll arrive first and claim victory. We're two and one part against eight." If there are hells, we'll see no worse than these at least.

"Ser Orrod is a seasoned killer. Once a sellsword, that man, until the leech lord decided he needed Orrod's services more than his enemies." Quickly the maester stole a glance at the other man, a silent one of slight frame, a long bow and steel long arrows on his back. The muscles on his fingers dexter told all men with eyes his skill would only be doubted by the soon dead.

Astaron's tin link of geography was put to the test. It was commonly known among cartographers that maps must always be updated. Castles were razed or renamed, villages abandoned, even on the occasion, the learned mind had to adjust the charts on the account of a river being purposefully rerouted. While Astaron's independent field of study had been underground channels, which by his observation appeared to be created by rain suffusing porous earth. Where previously men had thought wells were the results of diverted springs, or, more extremely, the hidden reality that the sea occupied a huge open space beneath the continents, the maester's learning of the bottoms of dry wells indicated that water flowed through porous rock, and was drinkable if not too close to the sea.

Here, nothing of what he had learned helped at all. He struggled with outdated maps of the Neck, none of them as broad as what he had studied.

"This is absurd. There are no visible alternate routes. We have to continue ahorse, however it taxes our water." The mares were always drinking, and they had to be attended with priority. His thoughts turned to the footpad, finding no rational reason to blame the sorrel coursers. Bloody cunt thinking he can cheat us, Astaron thought. Rather than remind himself of his own remittances, it indulged his sense of pride when he found a man to hate, and naught could convince him otherwise.

"Might be we can stay on the inside."

"There are like as not brigands hiding in the mountains." It was dawn of five days since the company had left the forest of the Neck, and Astaron began to wonder whether or not they were in the South. Running parallel to their path were Ironman's bay and the end of the Blue Fork. Men had said the Reach was the true South, and that Dorne was a sign a man had gone too far looking. Of course, the Vale was another matter, all the bastards were Stone and the Storms and the Flowers were a different flavor of heathen bastardry. Astaron internally acknowledged the irony that for all the isolation and distance the northron lords put on themselves, they did not divide even when times were fair. Astaron himself had been no bastard, he once claimed noble origin at the Citadel, whereupon the other acolytes laughed and averred he would never make a maester of himself if there were gold in the family. The truth of it was that he was a Braavosi merchant's son to a common girl, whether his father was highborn he could not say, his mother had raised him until his tenth nameday, when he sought apprenticeship with the Citadel.

As the Sunset Sea swallowed the light of the world, Ser Orrod raised a hand, halting the horses.

"What is it?"

"I need light to kill. We must wait for the rise."

"Snow, there are three maids and a woman. If the gods are kind, there will be four women when we arrive. If cruel, there will be four corpses." His horse's hooves shifted in the mud.

"Five. They have a knight." The matter halted with the approach of a horseman bearing a torch.

"Come no farther if you wish to see the sun again. My men have suffered enough attacks, but they can suffer a thousand more. Would that you simply gave up this charade."

"What charade?"

"A scout came back an hour ago telling tales of some hedge knight with cunts on a horse-" Jikkor drew his sword, slashing immediately, and managed to mangle the man's upper arm. He drew back, about to scream when an arrow pierced his skull. Orrod simply tore his missile free once the three men had checked for watchers. He gave a nod toward Jikkor, acknowledging something Astaron could not perceive. They supplanted his beast and traps onto Astaron, who accepted the stallion gladly, but could not fill the armor, leather though it was. Unseen as of yet, the party proceeded, Astaron nocking an arrow onto the horseman's bowstring as the ruins of Oldstones came into full view. Even as a ruin, the fortress was easily defended. They neared silently, keeping in the shadows before the maester fired the first shot, a failed attempt on a sentry. He cursed silently as he nocked a second shot, but the alarm was raised. From the window, no more than a hole in what remained of a wall, an archer let loose some bolt Jikkor outrode as he came to another target, out of the scholar's sight. For his own part, he managed to stick a man in the belly, while a quarrel grazed his leg. The mount unharmed, he bade it gallop, if slowly, to the wall where a Myrish man emerged from behind a corner, swinging wide with an axe.

"Cunt!" Astaron swore as the man struck him with a free hand and stuck the enemy's arm with his dagger before he could bring up the axe. It earned him another blow, this one nearly crushing his windpipe. Forcing his dagger deeper, he kicked the horse and jerked on the Essosi's arm, pulling him out of the saddle and onto the ground, freeing his own knife from the saddle as he got to his feet. Seven save me. The blade found lodged into the beast's rump, throwing it into a panic, bucking wildly. The scholar jumped free, but landed on his shoulder all the same. As the man approached him, all the prayers he had ever heard rushed through his mind, repeating with alacrity. He fell over before raising his knife; an arrow had pierced his neck.

"Where's Jikkor?" Astaron shouted after the knight.

"He took three down with him. He died a man's death."

"What happened?"

"He met a better swordsman, that man met an arrowhead. It makes no matter."

"Is there anyone left?"

"One man and a confused kitten."

"Did aught a man escape?"

"It makes no matter. This friend of yours never showed up." As horse and Ser Orrod came slowly emerged from shadow, an expression of distrust played across the man's face. "Tell me, maester. Did you ever once _doubt_ that this man told yours the truth?"

"Well, yes, and I regret it now, but I had reason-"

"As do I."

"I fear I do not-"

"You lied to us. This was a trap. First you beguile Jikkor, a hero. Then, you abstain from armor. The archers would expect you not to wear any and after all, you're among friends."

"You're mistaken-"

"I was mistaken once. You fail to kill the sentry, and only wound the other man-"

"I'm no archer-" the knight did not wait for him to finish.

"I saved your life. The gods demand that a man hear his dishonor before death."

"Please- Jikkor was a true knight." Astaron spread his hands wide, struggling to his feet in the mud from a recent rain.

"I once was a man like you. But when I trusted a man, he killed my mother." Astaron's anger exploded, unable to restrain himself, he shouted.

"You have naught experience with trust! I told the girls Straachan was a brigand when I first saw him! I thought him a fool for believing a whore!" Orrod struck him with the end of his bow, blackness and bright lights suffusing his field of vision. He landed in the mud.

"Fie." The knight spat. "You are naught, a waste of an arrow." Blackness claimed all.

When Astaron roused, the man was gone. A prodigious hole had been dug. Father above, how many are dead? The maester's platinum link of mathematics was hardly needed to know there were nine bodies uncaringly tossed in the pit, Ser Jikkor's on top, armor gleaming in the morning sun. You were a knight and a northman to the end, Jikkor. The thought came unbidden, Astaron knew not from whence.

An hour later, he had seen to his own wounds, nothing serious, but each would take months to repair. The unbent elder calling himself Jaehaerys Storm led a small troop of three men at arms, like as not the most that would believe his tale.

"Ser Orrod took only some of the gold. I've no idea why he left so much."

"How much is there?"

"Eighty score or near as much as makes no matter, dragons all. There's a note to us in some runic I can't interpret." Jaehaerys handed it to a warrior after looking at it with confusion.

"Like as not, the only script he can write."

"It reads-" a horseman began "-There are coins here for the men your friend will beguile." Taking a long look at both of them, the armed men each filled a purse, but had no means of carrying all the gold. Even light, it would be a burden on any horse. Astaron had looked about the ruins, finding that there were but two horses, Orrod likely having taken the ones that had not run off.

It was not long before the riders had left, overpaid for their service where Jikkor had paid with his life. Astaron and Storm saddled a dapple grey and roan, climbing on with what gold they could carry, keeping it in separate leather purses along with stags from the dead men. He would follow the Blue Fork to Fairmarket, what with Emmon Frey likely still holding Riverrun, to their knowledge. Neither had voiced the plan to take Coliete and Barta to the town, but Straachan might have had the idea on his own. Storm would simply await the arrival of the warrior at Oldstones, whether he liked the ghosts or no.

"Why in the seven hells did we think we were taking long anyway?" The maester asked himself as he rode the gelding adjacent to the river, flowing proudly as if to spite the freezing wind. The skies would soon return to snowing, he told himself. But then, if it snows rather than rains, as it probably will for the next few years, he thought to himself, how will the water seep into the ground? In many places, water had evacuated the underground, mostly for use of wells, and there came about a cavity below the surface.

It did naught to think on wells at a time like this, though. He had not even cogitated on a matter in which he could not find Straachan, and even thinking on it, he was unsure. Why would Astaron have gone on to Fairmarket anyway? The only way about it was that he had avoided the ruined fortress, somehow having arrived before the maester and knights. No, the man had not arrived, he was more the fool for considering the happening, and should he not see the girls and the knight and the woman, as he expected, he would round and return to Oldstones.

But as he arrived, it was an entirely different man to greet him than expected. Damon Vypren, a vaguely Braavosi knight with clear Frey blood what with his black hair introduced himself.

"My father was hunting a band of brigands around here." He said. "I thought I'd disappoint, that all men who had gone to Oldstones had gone away. But here you are, back with the mount over which you killed Catelyn Blackwood, and like as not the dragons you looted. Come with me."


	8. Myren-Green Fork

MYREN

The ship had swiftly run the Green Fork for days. A raven would have arrived in Duskendale about the findings in Valyria, but it would be long before the news would reach them, if it did. She estimated that the gold they had found was not one part in a century of what they would.

"Any news from Harrenhal? Jonalyn knows naught of out location, sending ravens would be imprudent-"

"You know what the answer is. I only sent what I dared, and if there were a serious need for expanding our knowledge, Catelyn knows how to find you." It was true, or near. Catelyn was a daughter of some Blackwood, a woman Myren hardly met, but to her knowledge made a man of her companion. Brown Courser, he went, his true name unknown. He had just finished retelling the same tale to a different crewmember, the one with the sausage man and woodswitch. Of course, they had parted ways with the meat merchant, and the woodswitch had died, so the only man who could tell it true was Denys Darklyn himself.

"I was just asking." You are always just asking. Myren had heard his fool's tale half a hundred times, and she tired of it on the first. There was no way it were true, it was just a man's cocksure nature letting all men know he was important. Of course, rising from the position of a handmaid of the Freys had been an endeavor throughout which she portrayed herself well, but the thought was subdued in her mind. There would be naught of this humility business while she breathed, no, men were cocksure and she was objective and forthright.

It was midday before the man himself rose. Denys Darklyn, or whatever his name was in truth, rose as he pleased and with whomever he pleased. It was this confidence that preserved his power in a cycle. Men looked at him and saw a man who did as he willed. Men saw him as powerful, and he was on account of every other man's belief. Were he stranded in the Stepstones, a man would see him with no trappings of power. Were he visiting King's Landing, where men had true power, a man would see him as another Sword Sable, and nothing more. And so, here he was, far from any who could say otherwise and surrounded by those who confirmed one another.

"Did I tell you I was once a friend to Varys the Spider?" their first conversation began. He had been visiting the Twins, and he had seen it in her eyes. A desire for power burned brightly for him with eyes to see it.

"No, m'lord. Your occupation never arose during the feast."

"It wouldn't have. There's no man alive, save he, to know of it. I was his little bird, as he calls one now. I remember the day he first came to Westeros. Do you have an interest in power?"

"Yes." There could be no hiding it.

"Queens and princesses are puppets in a mummer's show. Information is power. Belief is power. Varys said something similar to me once. I was his favorite." Their eyes locked and her employment was ensured.

Denys Darklyn strode across the death, greedily swallowing some Myrish purple wine meant to be sipped. Myren turned her eyes to the river ahead in disgust. If he could not obey the customs of the trappings, he would ever be an old sword in a king's clothing. It was a boy's pride that made him the way he was, anathema to Myren, a mere whisperer of the Swords, who believed if it were that he be proud, it would be with a man's pride, or better, a woman's. For a man's pride relied on his ability to lay, and a woman's in her ability not to lay, and in a realm full of mewling babes, one was worth more than the other. They would call her incapable, they would say she loves women, but it would all be for naught, for she would have her pride.

"I see a bird." Brown Courser, spurned, had taken to watching for birds in some childish attempt to prove his use. At least he truly was of use, if, of course it were indeed a raven.

"That is no raven, but a crow." Myren replied equally loudly. It would not do to be outdone.

"If it were a crow, it's the largest I've seen." The animal neared and grew in sight. The sellsword had seen many archers from a distance, his life depended on it with the passing hour, that was all it was.

"A crow, I have seen all manner of ravens, even the white." It spread its wings fully as it reached the bow, slowing as it rested on the figurehead. It cawed loudly, and she retrieved the message from its feet. It was a small raven, I might have been right.

"What message has this bird brought?" Myren had little and less idea and how to respond. It had been established that only in the case of an emergency.

"Harrenhal writes with dark words." She said as she unrolled the letter, reading it for herself first. It was customary to send a raven for such a task. "Catelyn is dead." Brown Courser cursed the gods as he made his way off to the prow. "There's some dignitary's son, Damon Vypren."

"_Ser_ Damon Vypren." Added a deckhand.

"His father's case was to seek out a band of brigands in the Riverlands. Damon is supposed to look for Blackwood's killer." She stored the letter in a hidden pocket in the bodice of her dress, green with a diaphanous skirt overlaying. "Do you remember the looted dragons from Raventree?" Her question was met with looks of uncertainty. Of course. "Bracken's men seized a chest from the fortress as the siege was held. Supposedly they attempted to hide it in the ruins of Oldstones and were killed over it, and there had been a bloodbath before Catelyn dispatched a Sword by the name of Darke to appropriate the gold and return with it to Harrenhal, failing that, to secure it until she could arrive with a discreet cart." Darklyn thought over it, responding while gazing over the edge at the water and the Riverlands.

"There can only be one explanation." A bold claim. "Catelyn left Harrenhal. There, she is unknown, her father made sure of that. Like as not she went after the chest and was killed on the way."

"Why kill her though? She would have been in disguise."

"To some men, it makes no matter who she is. She might have had the gold, but I have misgivings. If the dragons were with her, the Swords would be as well. No band would dare approach, much less near, even though their identity would be unknown.

"Another took the gold then, and killed her upon her approach."

"No. She had some sense in her head. She would have rounded if she saw anyone other than the Swords Sable. Even at a distance, she would know if Darke were there. No, I fear he's in one of the bad hells too." Myren had not thought of him as a devout man. More like than not, he was another of those who chose the faith to condemn. Of course, she liked to condemn as well, but that was permissible as long as she used no faith to such an end.

"If Darke is dead, we hunt a band of proficient killers. They must needs be no fewer than five in number." Darke Waters was a childkiller, but he was strong and had a band eight strong. Perhaps the same could be said of all men, whose power would be useful in responsible hands.

"If one thing is certain, this is it." He hesitated only a moment, unrolling a map from a hidden pocket in his raiment from which she had not seen him draw it. "Oldstones is…a day abest from Fairmarket at best. We have no word that the dragons are truly gone, only a suspicion as to that being some possible cause for Catelyn to have left Harrenhal."

"If not for the dragons, why?"

"Why not, might be. Catelyn is not supposed to be. That alone is reason for her to die." Myren looked over her shoulder at the crew and swords, noticing that not a man of them inclined an ear. They know their place.

"Catelyn may have died for a separate cause." She paused, reasonably considering the possibilities. "We know not how long she waited before setting out."

"You speak the truth. The coin could have been carried off days before she died, but I say it also still might be there."

"It makes no matter." Myren decided. "We must send someone for the dragons, and someone to Harrenhal."

"Harrenhal? Wherefore?"

"The letter has no name, but someone sent it to us with our raven at the fort. I intend to know how this letter came to us. This may be an elaborate trap."

"Not so like. The bird would know how to find us, but not that we were out here. Some servant or another just as like knew of our communication well enough not to pen a name onto the letter." The matter was done, and with that, the each saw little of another for the duration of the day and night.

Meryn woke to shouting, some hours before dawn. She threw an overcoat over a gown, slipping a dirk into her sleeve while verily leaping out of the cabin and onto the deck. A man in full armor on a horse, bay, dismounted onto the deck. Unable to parse the madness, Myren continued to observe, hoping that reality would reconcile itself with her mind. Onto the deck, the armored man lightly placed a child, bound so completely with such a length of rope that its age and sex were uncertain. He tore off his helmet, hair and face dripping with sweat.

"He was a fair fighter-better rider." He began. "But my mount was well rested, his like as not running its legs off for days."

"Calm down, bastard." A ship hand said, staying him with a calloused hand. "You were a scout, you say?"

"The Swords at Oldstones sent me north alone. Not a day passes 'fore I run into some whorish looking cunt on a courser. Took her in the heart with a rusted bolt. The man got my knee with a sword, but I pressed and grabbed the maid by the hair. Might be there was another like her, might be two."

"-But you killed the man."

"No, he's been trained- only cut his neck, by the gods the man was fast."

"A man can't live with an honest cut in his neck." Darke only laughed.

"I do naught honestly, but it makes no matter- I was away in a score of heartbeats." There were a few grunted words of approval, but Myren had a question.

"What, _may I ask,_ was the point in taking the girl? Raping?"

"My pursuer was a night, not a man who'd seen him would otherwise call." Waters responded. "And a knight would chase after, sooner kill a horse than let harm come to a maid." Denys chuckled and clapped the man on the shoulder.

"And what he didn't know was your mount was rested and well fed." Myren was not satiated.

"Who is she? Wherefore did she accompany a knight? Some daughter of-"

"We know nothing." Well, that much is clear.

"We take her to Harrenhal. There is no better place to us where we can secure her." Darklyn nodded, acknowledging that it was unwise to rule out the possibility that the child was highborn. The men returned to their work or sleep until it was she and Darke on board.

"When did you recognize me?"

"When you felt the need to wipe of your fool's visage." She paused, but curiosity overcame her.

"The boat never stopped."

"I came to a mostly destroyed bridge as I leveled with the ship -full gallop. I chanced a jump." Of course you did, cocksure knave. Myren returned to sleep angrier than before.


	9. Astaron 5

ASTARON

It was dark inside the Inn of the Kneeling Man. Damon Vypren pulled the black bag off Astaron's face, shoved the maester to his knees, and opened the door for an older man in a black feathered cloak, his beard short and graying, in the light of the lantern on the floor, he was an intimidating man.

"My name is Tytos Blackwood. No man was to know aught of Catelyn. Her body was discovered one and thirty hours ago. Do you deny your complicity?"

"Who in the seven hells-" Blackwood's fist cracked against Astaron's skull.

"My daughter was invisible from birth, fated to a life of secrecy. She has been my eyes at Harrenhal."

"She knew of the Swords." The maester could fain resist saying so, he had not spoken for hours. Had the bastard not kept me blinded, might be I would have known how long.

But even his ignorance of the path could not hide from him where he was. As an acolyte, he had taken a study of Fairmarket and its economy and the old master who had accompanied him imparted great wisdom in this very establishment.

"Astaron, should your studies ever take you to the link of Valyrian steel, I advise you turn your attention elsewhere. There is little and less to be gained from such a field." He had said.

"And you know of them as well." The riverlord asserted, bringing him back into reality.

"Heresay. A few words. But you're looking for brigands, not some man's conspiracy." In a secret interrogation, I must needs speak. Keeping silent will kill me.

"You knew the Swords were in Harrenhal."

"Everyone's in Harrenhal. It's not a small castle." Astaron did his due to sound exasperated.

"Where were you when she was killed?"

"Naught of this but reached me. Might be I was around Hag's mire."

"Due where?"

"King's Landing, maesters can always find-"

"Do you have any information to provide?" I can't slip up now. They're testing me.

"Only my most sincere condolences for a man who would go to such lengths for the memory of his daughter come to mind, Lord Blackwood." Tytos Blackwood crouched down and retained a pointed glare for what Astaron thought to be a moon's turn.

"We have found the most knowledgeable man who knows nothing." He rose, turning to leave. "Damon, your judgment was sound, but this man had nothing to do with Catelyn's death." As he walked out, the knight moved to free Astaron from bonds, but stopped as soon as the door closed. A balding man in lordly armor, with a sigil of a rearing stallion, gules, on a field, gold, rose from the bar.

"What's-"

"Maester, meet Lord Jonos Bracken. I invited him thus that he should hear confirmation that Catelyn is truly dead, and the possibility of capture beyond him."

"Having heard, what is his business now?" Letting me go?

"His part in our gamble is to assist me in finding the true killer." Best get to looking. You haven't found him. "You have heard all that we have. Is the master any more guilty to you?"

"Questions remain to me. How does a lone master venturing to King's Landing take an indirect route through the Riverlands, alone at that?" Damon was suddenly less certain of Astaron's innocence.

"I had originally set on Winterfell, yet to be disabused of its destruction. There was a party who chose to see me there."

"What of this party? Were they warriors? Merchants?"

"A fool. I was like as not to die before arriving."

"How long are you from Oldtown?"

"A moon's turn or near as much as makes no matter." Bracken stared. He knows naught of my intentions, but there is little and less reason to say that I have nefarious purposes and killed Catelyn Blackwood. The lord of Stone Hedge strode across the room in a feigned contemplative interest.

"The nature of the death of Blackwood's daughter does not concern me." he decided. Excellent. Now why don't you let me out of here and be on my merry way? "What does concern me-"He turned to face Astaron, who had risen from his kneeling position. "-is the gold. You say you passed Hag's Mire."

"I do."

"Wherefore? Was it simply on the way?" Bracken's voice betrayed his words.

"There is naught other explanation." Mother have mercy.

"Naught save one. You know about what happened to the gold, and you were seeking it."

"Of course I heard of the gold, no man can pass through without such words, but I dismissed them as idle rumor! On the seven, I have no cause to lie."

"A scout of mine reports the gold taken not an hour before you were."

"He reported it then or it was taken then?"

"What remains to be seen is the wherefore." But these are other questions for other days. I am an occupied lord, and I must abest." He left without a word. Damon Vypren faded into the lantern's light from the shadows of the inn.

"Officially, I am to hold you." Of course you are, I'm sure that cunt will thank you for it. "In reality, I have neither the means nor desire to feed and keep you."

"I request a letter. I must needs not be recaptured." Damon exhaled slowly, considering.

"It is impossible." The knight like the lords before him began to pace slowly across the room. "-and in equal part unnecessary." I'd like to see this one explained. "If the Lord of Light is with you, you need not fear the terrors of the night. There are hundreds of carts that go into King's Landing every day. A man could get to the Red Fort without the slightest suspicion."

"Ser, you are too generous, I-"

"-must needs be loaded onto a cart as soon as possible, before the lords return." There was no way of protest. Astaron could only pray that Damon would not follow. Escape would be difficult, but possible, at the Inn of the Kneeling Man, for they were yet north of most of the Riverlands, but turning back on foot having passed Stone Hedge and Raventree would be too quixotic to consider.

As fortune would have it, Ser Damon did not follow, but notified the driver of the cart, some Dornishman missing a hand, that he would receive additional returns if he brought the maester safely to the city. As such, when Vypren rode off, Astaron began to reason with his transporter.

"Neither of us wishes me to reach King's Landing."

"Ah, but I do not think so."

"Do you want me to report your thievery to the king?"

"Thievery- I lost my hand as a boy- I had greyscale."

"A missing hand is enough for the king's justice to mark a thief."

"Suppose I take you as contraband into the city, and then take you out all the same."

"Suppose you let me go directly."

"You don't know where to go. Damon or one of the lords will find you." The fool will not accept anything but payment.

"Suppose you take me north and I throw in a few dragons." This gave him pause.

"How many do you have?" he asked, eyebrows raising.

"A hundred or near as much as makes no matter. I suspect Damon's taken his fee from my saddlebags, but my horse is tied outside the bar." He had not considered the horse the entire time he had been captured, perhaps because he did not own it, perhaps because he had been captured.

"I do not believe you. The knight was generous to free you, and a man can only have dishonest motives not to appear before a king. I am a thief, but I am an honest one. I accepted my punishment." And I should accept mine, is that it? But the Dornishman would not continue.

They were to take the River Road until it ended at the Kingsroad, then turn south. Astaron's ideas of escape escaped him after the first night, exhausted, he went to sleep, missing his final opportunity to break and run north. The lords would be back at the Inn, and he had little resources without his horse, blissfully ignorant of the gold on its back. The thought of the gold's rightful owner, Bracken, discovering beast and dragon gave him no pleasure.

Beyond the thought of escape, he was further beyond killing the man. He was a craven any day of the moon's turn, and did not delude himself to think some native sense of right would keep him from doing so, but would be willing to call fear nobility if any maiden asked. The thought of threatening the Dornishman with the Black Dagger entered his mind, but either he was fool enough to fight or clever enough to see an empty threat and turn it aside.

On the third day he woke with the sun to the west and decided lack of activity gave way to sleep. The wheeler was deaf to appeals, but was willing to allow him to walk through the wood about Harrenhal when they reached that point. As it would not be for days, the man offered a Dornish tea, some aid to sleep for days. Astaron would not need to eat, could easily be mistaken for a dead man, and was like as not to pass as some honored friend of his transporter. The plan was attractive, but the maester usually decried unknown confections, his silver link had always done him well.

"What goes into it? I must needs have some idea." As bizarre as the suggestion sounded, it was possible the Dornishman was trying to kill him, never have to feed him, never hear his expressions of displeasure, and yet receive the same bounty.

"It is none other than mooned lamb's wool and barley potion. In Dorne they say 'confectionery for the sensual use of the nonconsensual'. Astaron had little trouble believing the phrase came from the far south, it was as uselessly elaborate as it was lewd. He wondered oft if Mereen and the region were competing in those pursuits, from what he knew of both.

"How long?" The Dornishman chuckled. What are you, two and ten?

"If you are cautious, my friend, your question is of little use. Only heartbeats would it take to kill you in your sleep, and more time is more the time passed unnoticed for you." He chuckled again. "Men say we are the cravens."

"My concern was not fear for my life, but the getting around the riverlords. Will this obfuscated concoction have me asleep to rise again, or dead to rise again in revenge?"

"The Brackens and the Blackwoods search, but not thoroughly as a man might for a lost lover." It was settled, and without giving himself time to reconsider, he drank. The taste was akin to a thin grapevine tea, not entirely unpleasant. He did not believe he had fallen asleep immediately, but when he saw a horseman on the lake, the difference from the vision and reality became clear. Astaron found himself propelled to the horseman, before him in heartbeats as the scene shifted. This was no true dream, for his mind was working perfectly.

"Who is he that comes to me?" the rider asked as though approach meant desire of death.

"Astaron comes unwillingly."

"Then fate has ordained as much." The maester had never ascribed aught to fate, to him it had always been men who decided theirs.

"Are you some minion of the red king-the one who shouted on and on about naught understandable?" He showed me a wrong to set aright, but I would have preferred not to see such a thing.

"Fie." He rode his armored horse to the water's edge. "I am no man's minion, even the Red Death kills not near so much men as I."

"What is your name?"

"I am the oldest of the First Men. My legacy is one of conquest and war."

"The High King was Garth Greenhand…"

"…and I am his father, he who burned the weirwood trees, gods and all." The somber man mounted hi s horse and the animal reared dexter, galloping off into the moonlight.


End file.
